116 EDGE OF THE JUNGLE 



Degas tells me that the world is gradually dark- 

 ening for her. And she vainly begs me to clear 

 the film which is slowly closing over her eyes. 

 She labors in a true landscape garden — the small 

 circle wrested with cutlass and fire from the great 

 jungle, and kept free only by constant cutting 

 of the vines and lianas which creep out almost 

 in a night, like sinister octopus tentacles, to stran- 

 gle the strange upstarts and re jungle the bit of 

 sunlit glade. 



Although to the eye a mass of tangled vege- 

 tation, an Indian's garden may be resolved into 

 several phases — all utterly practical, with color 

 and flowers as mere by-products. First come the 

 provisions, for if Degas were not hunting for me, 

 and eating my rations, he would be out with bow 

 and blowpipe, or fish-hooks, while the women 

 worked all day in the cassava field. It is his part 

 to clear and burn the forest, it is hers to grub up 

 the rich mold, to plant and to weed. Plots and 

 beds are unknown, for in every direction are 

 fallen trees, too large to burn or be chopped up, 

 and great sprawling roots. Between these, 

 sprouts of cassava and banana are stuck, and the 

 yams and melons which form the food of these 

 primitive people. Cassava is as vital to these 



